


Ridgewater

by nprose



Category: Daft Punk
Genre: 90s babes, High school teachers AU, M/M, romance???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nprose/pseuds/nprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Bangalter is a high school music teacher, happy in his new home of Ridgewater NY, but his somewhat unremarkable life is changed when a new fine arts teacher arrives from Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harrison High

**Author's Note:**

> what am I even doing? inspired in part by daftboyfriends on tumblr and an au compilation post.

Ridgewater, as a town, was nothing special. There was a main street with the post office, a church, and a library. Neighborhoods were small and generally tight knit. On the hill overlooking most of the town, there was a street lined with houses of the wealthy, which were slightly bigger but otherwise very similar to the houses of everyone else. There were concerts on the town green in the summer, when it was warm and the whole place smelled of grass. It was a typical New England town, but Thomas was not a typical New England resident. A born and bred Parisian, he had moved at age twenty to New York State to pursue his passion as a musician. He lived in the city for a year before deciding that he was done with cities entirely.

House music didn’t have quite the same following in upper New York than it did in the city, but the change in scenery also allowed Thomas to pick up a new passion, teaching. He loved music, all of it, from Stravinsky to the Strokes. Being relatively wealthy, it wasn’t hard for him to go back to school and start teaching music. He ended up settling in Ridgewater after commuting for a year and a half, and he loved it. The second floor of his modest yellow home was a studio for him, where he still made music whenever he could.

Every day at Benjamin Harrison High School was slightly different. Some days the cafeteria served tacos. Sometimes it was pizza. It had taken Thomas little time to get used to the school, as teenagers acted pretty much the same as they had in his secondary years in Lycée Carnot. The students had loved him when he started, the girls especially fawning over his French accent and his wardrobe. Thomas still stuttered sometimes when people complimented him.

It hadn’t taken him very long to make friends with his fellow educators, but none of them were terribly close. Many were lifelong Ridgewater residents who had never left the country, and many were much older than Thomas. He liked the head of the Biology department, a tall black woman with short hair, and often helped her clean up her labs during his lunch hour. The assistant principal, a heavyset older man with a legendary love for coffee, had taken a particular liking to Thomas too. Thomas made fast friends with the French teacher, a blond woman who spoke three other languages, and they occasionally had chats when their free periods were the same, but her formal school French was awkward next to Thomas’s. He spent most of his time alone in the arts wing, where his music classroom was. He had a tiny office in the space between the music theory classroom and the choir room, and it was tidy but crammed full of books. He spent much less time in there than with his students.

Thomas loved his students. Music Theory was an elective, so there were few kids who didn’t want to be there. Ridgewater lacked the diversity and culture of Paris, but many of the kids were just as passionate, social, and friendly. A few were even French students who tried to have conversations with him. He had a pretty good mix of cliques in his classes, and a handful showed real talent. Thomas focused on composing, and he loved to see students with the same gift.

He was in the middle of a particularly good composition by a generally quiet student when the art wing suffered a tragic loss. The Physical and Fine Arts teacher was retiring. A woman in her early sixties, the arts teacher had been at Harrison for thirty years and had gone through two building moves and the construction of the new arts wing. Her retirement was expected but not happily accepted. Thomas had liked her and dropped by one day to say goodbye after her retirement party. Not very long after, a long-term sub was given her position for nearly a year when they tried to work out a replacement. Teachers were scarce in Ridgewater, especially fine arts teachers. Many Ridgewater residents were in banking or were manufacturing executives, and most worked in the city. It seemed that there was no one in the town to take her position.

Six months passed without much incident, and Thomas had temporarily taken over directing the choir as the regular director was on maternity leave. The choir kids, many of whom were also his Music Theory students, liked him. Thomas was busy, happy, and hardly noticed the world outside of the small row of music classrooms. That changed when one drowsy Monday morning, there was a knock at his office door. It was 7 am, a half-hour before classes started, and earlier than most teachers were in the building. Thomas paused in scrawling a note on the side of a music piece to unfold his lanky frame from underneath the short wood desk and tug a hand through his out of place brown curls before opening the door.

“Thomas, the new fine arts teacher is here,” chirped the band director, an arts wing associate. She was about his height in heels, a pretty Asian woman whom he saw occasionally in the hallways. The new teacher must be interesting if she were going out of her way to tell Thomas about them. Thomas looked down at his outfit, a dark green sweater-vest over his favorite white shirt and a pair of khakis, and wondered vaguely if he should have gone for the more ubiquitous shirt and tie this morning.

“They hired one already?” Thomas asked, confused. It hadn’t felt like long ago that the last one had retired. She rolled her eyes at him. Thomas shrugged and followed the band director from the little office outside into the hall. The assistant principal, in his usual ugly tweed suit, was down near the end of the arts wing with a smaller figure next to him. Thomas couldn’t make out anything but a profile that far away, but the figure was dressed entirely in dark clothes and seemed to be a couple of inches shorter than the assistant principal, who wasn’t exactly towering at under six feet.

“Apparently they’re getting a tour,” the band director commented. “I don’t even know if the new hire is a man or woman. They haven’t told us anything.”

“Yeah, it’s strange,” Thomas replied, unconsciously straightening the hem of his shirt.

“It’ll be at least ten minutes before they reach us down here,” the band director stated. “I’m going back to my office.”

Thomas nodded and reentered his own office, leaving the door open a crack so he would be able to hear the voices of the pair as they passed by his door. He returned to his work, scribbling on student papers with his favorite green pen. His thoughts drifted. The faculty hadn’t heard so much as rumors about the new hire, and here they were standing in the arts wing. He wondered if they were a more traditional artist or someone new. Judging by the amount of black they were wearing, Thomas was guessing new. He hadn’t realized just how long he’d spent thinking before there were two sets of footsteps outside his door. The assistant principal knocked on Thomas’s doorframe, careful not to upset the slightly ajar door. Thomas straightened up and pushed his chair back in, opening the door.


	2. Newbie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New character!

Facing him was the assistant principal in his trademark ugly tweed suit and a very pale, rather short man with dark, wavy hair that brushed his shoulders. He was broader in build than Thomas but not even approaching the pudgy assistant principal. His eyes were blue, a darker blue than Thomas had ever seen, and his mouth was set in a small curve of disdain. His features were fine and obviously European. He looked like another Parisian to Thomas, and that suspicion was confirmed the second he was introduced.

“This is our new fine arts teacher, Guillaume-Emmanuel de Homem-Christo,” the assistant principal said, absolutely butchering the name. Thomas realized why the shorter man looked so irritated.

“Guy-Man,” the dark-haired new hire corrected, not reaching out a hand for Thomas to shake. Thomas extended his own instead.

“Salut, je m’appelle Thomas Bangalter,” the taller teacher replied, hoping the new hire wouldn’t judge him on his assumption.

“Salut,” Guy-Man replied, looking pleased. They continued to chatter in French, or Thomas did.

“You’re Parisian? I grew up there. Fancy another Frenchman here.” He laughed. “I haven’t had a proper conversation outside my family in years.”

“Ouai,” Guy-Man responded, “I just recently moved. Very different, this place. I’m still living near the city.”

Thomas was interested, looking at Guy-Man’s outfit. The leather jacket and dark jeans accompanied by combat boots reminded him of himself a good ten years ago. It looked good on the shorter man, though.

“Alors, les arts plastiques. Did you attend school to teach, or are you an artist yourself?”

“I never set my sights on teaching, but one can’t find a good job in the city.” Guy-Man shrugged.

“Je sais, je sais, I tried too, but the last thing New York needs is another musician.” Thomas chuckled with an easy smile. The assistant principal tapping his foot and muttering about the tour interrupted their banter.

“It’s just a tour, right?” Thomas asked. “I can show him. No problem.”

“Make it quick, Thomas, he’s due in my office in an hour.”

Thomas smiled and assured him that they’d be done in less. He and Guy-Man toured the school, Thomas chattering about the building and the various teachers that Guy-Man would meet. Guy-Man occasionally asked a question or responded to one of Thomas’s but otherwise didn’t speak. Due to the taller man’s constant chatter it didn’t feel like long before they ended up in front of the assistant principal’s office.

Even though both now worked in the arts wing, their schedules didn’t match up at all. The most Thomas could do was bring Guy-Man an espresso the next morning. Thomas loved the stuff.

“Merci,” Guy-Man muttered, taking the proffered coffee. He downed it quickly. He wouldn’t say it, but he was oddly apprehensive about his first day. Thomas’s constant chatter was rather calming.

“Quite an outfit change,” the taller man pointed out. Guy-Man was clad in a black button-up with his sleeves rolled up and a rather tight-fitting pair of also black slacks. He was still wearing his combat boots, though. His leather jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Thomas had the feeling that Guy-Man’s currently blank classroom wouldn’t be blank for long.

The art teacher rolled his eyes. “It’s just for the introduction day. We start the actual art tomorrow. No fancy shirts then.” He eyed Thomas’s outfit choice, a pair of black slacks with a rather strangely colored green shirt and a striped tie.

Thomas noticed. “Hey, this is my favorite shirt.”

“Why?” Guy-Man asked, arching an eyebrow.

“You’re wearing combat boots,” he retorted. “Steel toes. In an art classroom.”

“Have you ever dropped a block of clay on your foot?” Guy-Man asked, downing some coffee. It was painful, but Guy-Man mostly liked the look and especially the height they gave him.

“Well, no,” Thomas admitted. They sat and sipped espresso in silence for a few minutes before the first bell rang and the curly-haired man rushed out to get to his first Music Theory class.

They didn’t talk for a few days, but Thomas passed by the shorter man’s classroom often. He noticed a hand-drawn sign of various art materials had replaced the plastic sign with the substitute’s name. It had “Mr de Homem-Christo” written in perfect script at the bottom. Thomas chuckled the first time he saw it. Guy-Man didn’t really come off as a “Mr de Homem-Christo” to him.

The next time they saw each other was a good two weeks later. Thomas was swamped with a test for Advanced Music Theory and a choir concert, and Guy-Man was getting used to having classes at all. Thomas dropped him a note about meeting in the art room after school on a Friday, and showed up at two-thirty abandoning the stacks of tests he had to grade. Guy-Man looked quite different. The combat boots were the same, but he was wearing ripped light-wash jeans and a band t-shirt. There was a smear of navy paint on his cheek and his hair was held up with a pencil. Thomas smiled when he saw him. Guy-Man looked like a college kid.

Thomas, in comparison, always dressed about ten years older than he actually was. His second favorite pair of khakis accompanied a pale red shirt and checkered red tie. “Mr. de Homem-Christo,” Thomas began, getting a good laugh out of it. Guy-Man groaned.

“I don’t like it. What are they even supposed to call me?” He shrugged, not seeming to realize that there was paint on his face. Thomas decided not to tell him.

“Je ne sais pas. I was Mr. Bangalter for two years before I figured I should get them to stop making sex jokes about my name by shortening it to Mr. B. Still makes me feel old.”

“Mr. de Homem-Christo sounds like a museum curator. I am not a museum curator.” Guy-Man illustrated his point by making a sweeping hand motion around his classroom.

“How is it coming, by the way?” Thomas loosened his annoying tie. Guy-Man’s glance was drawn to the motion and he watched Thomas’s hands, completely ignoring the question until the taller man cleared his throat.

“Ah, bien, bien. They are good, the students. Most of them. Interesting concepts.”

“You’re painting now?” Thomas asked. Guy-Man nodded, and Thomas continued. “Visual arts always interested me, but I can’t draw more than a stick figure.” He chuckled at himself.

“I’m into music myself. I never got my hands on anything good, though. People are more likely to gift you paints than synthesizers.” Guy-Man had a faint smile on his face.

“Well, it worked out for you.”

They spent a solid hour chatting, and Guy-Man showed Thomas the painting he was currently working on. It was a cityscape of Paris, a beautiful one.

“It makes me homesick,” Thomas murmured. “I haven’t been back in years.”

“We should go,” Guy-Man added. Thomas gave him a smile before he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh christ that was a long wait I'm so sorry guys


	3. The Studio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens!

Thomas started paying more attention to the students’ and teachers’ chatter after Guy-Man started teaching. There were always interesting rumors floating around. Thomas’s personal favorite was the one about Guy-Man being a descendant of some famous Portuguese writer who knew Mussolini. That was the most prevalent among the history students and teachers. There was a lot of speculation, as Guy-Man was quiet even among his fellow arts teachers. He disliked his heavy accent, even though all the students (girls and boys alike) adored it. It was hardly ever brought up with Thomas, as the pair constantly spoke French to each other—when they had free time, of course. Thomas dropped by the arts room often in the mornings, constantly having coffee for both of them.

One of those days, Thomas actually remembered to bring his cell phone to school. He loved technology, but was absent-minded. It turned out that Guy-Man had a similar model, though it was barely used. He just didn’t care for it as much as Thomas did. They ended up exchanging phone numbers and addresses. That weekend, Thomas was trying to work up the guts to ask Guy-Man about the possibility of meeting up when the man in question texted him. They ended up on the town green, it being that strange Indian summer where the rest of the week had been bitterly cold.

Thomas was wearing a Strokes t-shirt, his nicest pair of jeans, a favorite pair of Vans, and a light jacket. Guy-Man was dressed a bit differently, in another ratty, paint-stained pair of jeans with a red plaid shirt that he loved, and the omnipresent combat boots and leather jacket. He liked jewelry, and wore a gold snake chain on his wrist that matched a gold pendant around his neck. Thomas was nursing a coffee and Guy-Man was smoking. The pair ended up on a bench hardly shaded by a bare oak tree, talking about music.

Each enjoyed the other’s company. Thomas was chatty and appreciated a quieter counterpart. Guy-Man didn’t mind the chatter, especially liking that they spoke French to each other. He spoke when he had something useful or funny, and Thomas always listened intently. He was glad Thomas didn’t mind him smoking. He had found that most Americans didn’t like it. They started chatting about Thomas’s studio and what he owned.

“Would you like to see it? I live right in town,” Thomas suggested, self-consciously tugging his hand through his hair.

“Ouai,” Guy-Man replied after a moment, with a small head nod. He took a drag off the cigarette and smiled a little at Thomas. Thomas’s heart fluttered. The taller man ignored it.

“I’m close enough to walk in the summer, but it’s a bit chilly now…” Thomas’s sentence trailed off. “I parked in the library lot, it’s not far.” Guy-Man nodded slightly and stood up when Thomas did, following his lead. Thomas paid attention to match his stride to Guy-Man’s, not wanting to walk far ahead of him. Since he kept glancing down at their feet, Guy-Man noticed. He didn’t say anything, but took another drag off his cigarette and smiled a little.

“I used to smoke in Paris, but it’s harder to keep up here. Lots of rules.” Thomas waved his hand absentmindedly. Guy-Man offered the cigarette to him and he took it and inhaled slowly, coughing slightly when he exhaled. He ended up laughing at himself. “It’s been a while.”

They stepped from the green into the library lot, where Thomas’s secondhand silver sedan sat next to Guy-Man’s pride and joy, a 1960 Corvette Stingray, which was black, shiny, and still bore his French license plate. Thomas whistled. Guy-Man chuckled. “It was a gift from mon père.” He stubbed the cigarette out and got in the car.

Thomas was a little dazed. “I guess you can follow me.”

“Non, you can come with me. You can…navigate.” He gestured for Thomas to get in too. The top was down, even though it was a bit too cold. Thomas didn’t care. He zipped up his jacket and got in, a dumb grin plastered on his face. He laughed out of joy when Guy-Man started the car and the roar of the engine began. They peeled out of the parking lot and Thomas could swear he could smell burned rubber.

“À droite!” Thomas yelled over the engine noise. Guy-Man took a sharp right and floored it. They had a great time driving back to Thomas’s house, Thomas occasionally yelling for him to turn left or right. Thomas’s curls were going haywire, and Guy-Man’s hair was unspeakably worse, but they were both having fun. Guy-Man admired the curly-haired man’s smile and even better, his laugh. It felt like seconds before they pulled into Thomas’s driveway, and Guy-Man parked in the garage.

“C’est fantastique, ta voiture…” Thomas still had that dumb grin on his face.

Guy-Man just gave him a little smile in return and waited a beat before Thomas remembered to invite him in. He scrambled and dropped his key and generally made a blushing fool of himself while Guy-Man brushed an imaginary speck of dust off his car. When Thomas managed to successfully unlock his door, he stepped in and let Guy-Man in after him.

His house was large for one person, but the first floor was arranged like an apartment. Guy-Man realized that Thomas’s music equipment must take up a hell of a lot of space. His first impression of Thomas’s house was tidy but packed. The kitchen was obviously well used and well stocked. The dining room was used as an office, and the closed-off office functioned as a bedroom. Wherever there was bedroom wall space, there was a music poster. It reminded Guy-Man of his room in high school. Thomas noticed and quickly offered for them to go upstairs, and was on his way without Guy-Man even opening his mouth.

“I have more than I used to back home, but a lot of this stuff is used,” he babbled on, talking about all of the different instruments and machines he used for his music. Guy-Man admired them, picking up and touching things he liked. The instruments were precious to Thomas but he felt as if Guy-Man could be trusted with them. Guy-Man picked up the most weathered guitar in the room, Thomas’s favorite, and began to lazily play the first few chords of a song by the Doors. Thomas recognized it and smiled, fighting off the urge to sing. Guy-Man put the instrument back with a small smile on his face. He really was quite handsome, especially with one of those little smiles. Thomas turned his attention from his fellow teacher to the desk in the corner of the large room that functioned as his composing desk, and began to clear off all the papers covering it. He heard a familiar soft click and realized that Guy-Man was lighting a cigarette.

Thomas turned to tell him off but shut his mouth when he saw the shorter man. Sitting atop an old, dusty amp with his leather jacket straining at the shoulders, cigarette in hand and messy hair falling over one dark blue eye, Guy-Man looked like he belonged in that room. It seemed to Thomas that he hadn’t realized one puzzle piece was missing, and now with it slotted into place the whole picture was different. Smoke lazily curled from the cigarette up to brush the angled ceiling of Thomas’s music room. Guy-Man was looking away from him, attention still on all of the instruments lining the far wall. In the diffused sunlight, Thomas couldn’t help but notice that Guy-Man resembled someone off a vintage music magazine cover.


	4. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heh heh heh

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Guy-Man murmured with amusement in his tone. He smiled, looking at Thomas, and took a drag off the cigarette. He couldn’t help but find the taller man cute. He seemed to permanently have his mouth open, and looked almost as if in awe, blushing at Guy-Man. Noticing what he was doing, Thomas shut his mouth and chuckled as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Tu, eh, tu es beau,” he stuttered, not exactly meaning to call Guy-Man handsome but not being able to find another word that worked. He got another half-smile as a reward.

“You’re not bad yourself,” the blue-eyed man replied, taking another lazy drag. It was almost intoxicating to watch him. Thomas went beet red when he noticed he was staring and tore away his gaze.

“I’m going to get something to drink from downstairs, you want anything?” Thomas realized he needed some alcohol.

“Guinness, and an ashtray,” Guy-Man stated, keeping his intensely blue eyes fixed on Thomas. “Merci.”

Thomas got himself a beer and took a few good drinks before returning upstairs with the things for Guy-Man. The blue-eyed man set the drink and the small glass ashtray down on the window ledge as he smoked and talked to Thomas. Thomas was feeling better after half a can of beer, and had pulled off his shoes and jacket, draping the jacket over his desk chair. Guy-Man was hanging onto his jacket, but the plaid shirt had a few less buttons buttoned. They chatted about music for a long time, and the sun had set by the time either realized what the clock said.

Guy-Man scowled when Thomas checked his phone. “It’s a bad time for me to drive back into the city. Work rush now.” He was on his third beer and countless cigarette. He never seemed to run out.

Thomas winced. “Sorry for keeping you here so long.”

Guy-Man shrugged slightly, the movement making his leather jacket crease. “Non, not your fault. I’m keeping you from dinner.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s only seven. We can get takeout.” Thomas took another sip, finishing off his second can. He only drank when he paused speaking, which wasn’t often. Guy-Man, on the other hand, was constantly occupying his mouth with something. Thomas wondered if it was a thing for him.

“Anything good around here?” Guy-Man asked, not quite as casually as he wanted it to sound.

“There’s a Thai about twenty minutes from here, it’s a bit of a drive but nothing like city traffic.” Thomas caressed the edge of his old desk, needing something to do with his hands.

Guy-Man had gotten down from the amp, which seemed to be his favorite perch, and was zipping up his jacket. “Let’s go. Takeout would be longer, I’m starving.”

“You’ve been drinking, and so have I. Let’s see if they do delivery.” Thomas picked up the phone. Guy-Man sighed. It wasn’t as if he appeared drunk. The only thing that changed was his readiness to blush and run his mouth.

The pair had haphazardly set the table by the time the food came. Guy-Man had insisted on wine at dinner instead of beer, which made Thomas smile. French habits died hard. Their setup looked like a lazy candlelit dinner, Guy-Man lighting the single candle in the room with his cigarette lighter. Thomas got them the glasses and wine and turned off most of the lights. He didn’t like bright light when he was drunk, it was annoying. They sat down at the small table, always managing to get in each other’s way but not really minding. Guy-Man got the food from the cute delivery guy and gave him a wink as well as a tip. He was feeling particularly flirtatious.

Thomas saw and snorted into his wine glass. The food was ungracefully dished out onto Thomas’s colorful plate collection, and they ate slowly. Their dinner discussion was, of course, about music. Thomas had a nagging feeling that they’d talked about the same the Doors song at least twice before, but Guy-Man’s commentary changed slightly as he drank. The conversation turned at one point to Guy-Man’s aspirations and his time in art school, which was fascinating to Thomas. They were at the dinner table for a solid hour, neither bothering to clean up the plates when they gravitated away from it.

“It’s nine at night, I would be incredibly rude if I didn’t offer you my couch,” Thomas said as they stood from the dinner table.

“To hell with the couch, I get the bed,” muttered Guy-Man, putting out his cigarette and polishing off his wine.

Thomas didn’t know how to respond.

“You can come too,” he elaborated, gracing the taller man with another half-smile. Thomas just nodded awkwardly and followed Guy-Man into his own bedroom, watching the shorter man peel off the leather jacket and feeling like he was intruding. The paint-stained jeans went next and Thomas vaguely wondered if this was the shorter man’s way of prepositioning him.

Instead of lying across the bed and asking for sex (which Thomas was absolutely not thinking about) Guy-Man walked over, just in the loose plaid shirt and his boxers, and kissed his host gently. He tasted like wine and smoke. Thomas just stood there blinking for a minute as Guy-Man got into his bed and promptly fell asleep on the side that Thomas liked. The taller man finally realized that he should get in bed too, but was too tired to move all the way to the couch. He collapsed next to Guy-Man fully clothed and was out like a light.

Thomas woke up to the smell of coffee, which was unusual. He had occasionally had girlfriends and boyfriends but none of them were coffee people. He got up and rubbed his eyes, walking like a zombie into the kitchen to find the half-clothed arts teacher drinking espresso out of Thomas’s favorite mug. His hair was up in the messiest stable bun Thomas had ever seen, pinned with a pencil. Thomas took a moment to wonder how Guy-Man always looked like a model before realizing that there was coffee. Wordlessly, the shorter man passed him a mug that had “Hold me, I’m a fermata” printed on it, a gift from one of Thomas’s senior Music Theory students. He drank gratefully.

“Bonjour et merci pour le café,” Guy-Man teased, and Thomas dutifully repeated. “Thank you for dinner last night,” the blue-eyed man continued, “And letting me sleep here. I’m bossy when I’m drunk.” He gestured towards the bed and laughed.

Thomas cut back a “you’re always bossy” reply. “You’re a good kisser.”

Guy-Man laughed again. It was a nice sound, and his very blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “Sorry about that.”

“I didn’t mind,” Thomas muttered with an easy smile, taking another sip of coffee.

“You normally sleep fully clothed?” Guy-Man inquired, gesturing with his coffee mug to Thomas’s complete outfit. Thomas grimaced.

“No, not when I can avoid it.” He took a step away, and Guy-Man seemed to interpret that as a sign. He put down his mug.

“I guess I should go. You obviously want to go change,” he muttered, taking Thomas’s pencil out of his hair.

Thomas waved his hand. “No need. I should at least make you breakfast before you drive all the way back to the city.”

Guy-Man half-smiled again. “Merci. That would be nice. I rarely eat breakfast on weekends.” Thomas looked vaguely insulted.

“Sit down, you’re getting crepes.”

Guy-Man didn’t sit down. He made more coffee and fetched Thomas ingredients, generally talking to him as well. He ended up putting the pencil back in his hair too. He liked watching Thomas cook, even though he needed to stay out of the way in the small kitchen space. He helped out when he could, washing off berries and setting the table in a slightly less haphazard way from last night, really grateful that his drunk self had had enough sense to blow out the candle. He kept thinking about last night, wondering what might have happened if they hadn’t both been so tired. Crepes were up soon and the pair sat down in the same places they had taken the previous night. Thomas gave them both goat cheese and blueberries, which were delicious and gave both of them sticky purple fingers.

“Merci pour le petit-déjeuner,” Guy-Man stated, wiping the blueberry juice off his hands.

“De rien,” Thomas replied with a smile. He cleared the plates off his small kitchen table in a practiced manner, managing to balance everything without dropping it. Guy-Man redressed and pulled on his jacket.

“I should be going. I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome.”

“No, not at all,” Thomas exclaimed, turning towards the shorter man to smile. They said their goodbyes and Guy-Man left with a quiet roar of the Corvette engine before Thomas realized he’d left his car parked in the library lot.

The next day, Monday, was cold and quiet. Thomas got to the school at his normal time to find Guy-Man already there, dressed in a similar fashion to the day before.

“Salut. Want some coffee?” Thomas asked, holding out one travel mug. Guy-Man gratefully accepted and started drinking, brushing his hair out of his face. They still only saw each other these few minutes in the morning.

It had been nearly a month and a half since Guy-Man had been hired, and he was getting used to teaching. He loved it, which he hadn’t exactly anticipated. He often did projects along with his students, exploring media he hadn’t touched since the first year of art school. The painting of Paris was finished and hung above his desk. The art room was beginning to really feel like home. Half-finished student projects littered the back counters. Finished ones hung off the wall and on shelves positioned all over the room. It was chaotically organized and Guy-Man had plans for a mural on the far wall.

Thomas wished he could spend more time there. The choir director was only halfway through her maternity leave, and as much as Thomas loved directing he had little spare time.

Students talked about them, and fellow teachers did too. It hadn’t progressed into full-blown rumors yet, but there were always whispers. A small group of juniors in one of Guy-Man’s later art classes maintained that the pair was dating, but few believed them.

They were close to right. One Friday night, Guy-Man called Thomas. It had been weeks since they spoke outside of school and longer since they had kissed. Guy-Man was thinking about how much he regretted that when Thomas picked up.

“Bonsoir, Guy-Man, ça va?” His rich French greeting lessened Guy-Man’s anxiety. Thomas always sounded pleased to hear from him.

“Bien, bien, et toi?” He replied, his smile evident in his voice. “Have you eaten? I don’t want to have dinner alone, I’m planning a pasta dish.”

“I’m good as well, thanks. No, I haven’t eaten yet. I’ll go find my dinner jacket. We can make it slightly more proper than last time.” Thomas chuckled quietly.

Guy-Man smiled and gave the curly-haired man his address, bidding him a nice drive before hanging up and beginning dinner. He was a fairly good cook and within the hour had produced a fettuccine alfredo to die for. He poured the wine, set the table, frantically cleaned up, and just managed to shower and dress when Thomas knocked on the door to his flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making up for the hiatus here folks


End file.
